


Leaves a Mark

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bruises, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Take This To Your Apartment, Tales from 2004 (ish), but also love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 19:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11215092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: A tiny sexy fic about the marks Pete leaves on Patrick, and Patrick wanting more.For Bandom Bingo 2017: loss of control.





	Leaves a Mark

A week ago Patrick was watching Pete get a tattoo, hips rising off the chair. A week ago Patrick wondering whether it was pleasure or pain, that made Pete move that way—his eyelids soft and smooth, his lip pinned between his teeth, forehead creased and jaw strained ever so slightly. A week ago Patrick was positioning his jacket in front of his groin so no one else would become painfully aware of how hard he was.

_Now Patrick is splayed on Pete’s bed like miles and miles of pale skin, tinged blue with blood like hypothermia, not an inch of it marked. Pete hovers over him, face made up in agony as he fusses like an artist over where to leave his first mark. No needles, today: but Pete can bite sharp, suck hard. A dragon’s hoard of uninked skin, Pete’s for the marring. He will not part with a single coin._

 

A week from now his thighs will be yellow with bruises, spreading sickly like melanomas, darkest at the points where Pete’s teeth pierced the top layers of skin, popping bright with blood vessels from the suction. A week from now Patrick will be mottled brown and green, fitting his fingers over those mouth-marks with one hand while he fucks himself raw with the other, because bitemarks are not enough.

_Pete’s mouth on Patrick, bared stomach, soft thighs, legs spread helplessly, arms flung out. Boxer shorts and t-shirts the only thing left between them: discretion, caution, wisdom all abandoned, in pursuit of this. One dizzy, busy kiss was all it took to bring them here. One bite, Pete promises himself. One bite only._

 

Fuck, fuck, how will he survive, when the last of the bruises fade? His only proof. Pete’s touch should welt and scald, but it does not. Talk about injustice. Patrick’s not gonna last a minute longer than the bruises do. He strokes them ceaselessly, feeling them burning there beneath his pant leg. He soaks them in warm water, googles how to make bruises last.

_But god Patrick tastes good._

 

One kiss, two thighs, three bitten bruises. Whatever’s coming next, Patrick wants four.

_Can’t, says something hot and unwanted in Pete’s gut. Shouldn’t. Not allowed. Stop, says the part of Pete that has any sense._

_But then, breathless, chin thrust back and hips canted upward, from the pink-swollen lips of Patrick: “Don’t stop.”_

 

One week after that, the marks are invisible as never-existed. WebMD said they’d last two weeks; he’s cheated, betrayed. Worse, he’s pretty sure Pete’s avoiding being alone with him—either that or Pete and Andy swallowed a pair of magnets and Pete _has_ to be that far up Andy’s ass at any given moment. What happened is nothing happened. Kiss, crash, clothes off; Pete placing the most precise and deliberate thigh bites while Patrick writhed to ruination; then Pete flying across the room like horror itself grabbed him by the throat and threw him; and it was done.

_Patrick, throat exposed, helpless. Young._

_Pete can’t believe what he’s almost done._

_There’s regret, and then there’s—_

 

Patrick wants mouthmarks limned in his skin, just like Pete’s got tattoos. If they have to ooze and weep and bleed before they’re permanent—if Pete has to bite black into the flesh of him—well, at least Patrick would have proof of memory. He wants all of Pete, even the parts that leave scars.

_And even then Pete can’t stop._

_Pete drops to his knees, he slides to the floor, he grinds his forehead in the carpet til it flushes and burns. A supplicant, a confessor, a man driven desperate, he pleads. “Please, please. Let me, let me.”_

Patrick said yes, is the thing. Patrick said yes, Patrick said please, Patrick would raze heaven and douse hell for another moment, another touch—what he’s asking isn’t much—but somehow the word hit Pete like _no_.

 

_Patrick, pasty and unguarded, joins him on the carpet, crosses the room on his pink knees, whispering “Yesyesyes.” Fuck, what wouldn’t Pete do to Patrick on his knees?_

_That’s how Pete knows he has to get out of there. He looks up through his bangs at kneeling, barely-dressed, red-mouthed Patrick. Eyes clear and blue-green, cheeks stained with high color, the smallest rough shine of pale blond stubble._

_Pete blurts out, “I’ve gotta—I’m gonna leave you.”_

_Pete grabs a pair of jeans as he runs out the door._

_Like a fairy tale, he knows the evil inside him will freeze him in place if he looks back._

_So he doesn’t look back._

Now, it’s two weeks since it happened, the bruises are gone, and Patrick is sick to death of being avoided. The apartment the four of them share –it’s not large. It’s pretty obvious what’s happening. Pete will be sprawled out over the whole of the couch, deep in a nest of pillows and snacks, glued to the Playstation and looking like he hasn’t moved in hours, and then Patrick will enter the room just as Joe leaves it, and Pete’s gone so fast he leaves behind a cartoon puff of dust.

_They’d been writing, lazy aimless in Pete’s bedroom. Pete’s new tattoo was entering the itchy phase; he’d been digging his fingernails into Patrick’s arms to deal with the impulse to scratch. Patrick’s pen slipped, his breath hitched. Pete unwound his grip and they looked down together at the line of purple half-moon indents Pete had left. Patrick had looked up at him, barely breathing. Patrick had said, “I like that. You leaving a mark on me.”_

_And Pete totally lost control._

 

Does Pete not trust Patrick enough to be alone with him? Were the bites a mistake? Was the kiss—? But no. Patrick knows intention when he feels it, piercing his tender skin. Nothing has ever been as deliberate, as _meant_ , as those vanished bruises.

 

 _Pete doesn’t trust himself enough to be alone with Patrick_.

 

So Patrick does what he must. He lays in wait til he catches Pete peeling off from his honor guard and slipping into his bedroom alone. Patrick rams the door with his shoulder just before it closes, just before Pete can lock him out.

Breathing hard, he stands before panic-faced Pete. His fists are clenched. His chest is heaving. He wants, he wants, he wants.

 

_The kiss. The kiss was a tidal wave. Pete just fucking launched himself at Patrick, electric with ideas of all the marks he could leave on that skin. Patrick kissed back without hesitation, like he’d had the hottest, hungriest kiss in the chamber this whole time, just waiting for Pete to pull the trigger._

_The kiss swept Pete away._

“What are you doing?” Pete asks, voice strangled. His eyes dart around the room, frantic. Searching out an escape. There is only one escape Patrick knows. Pete keeps it in his mouth.

“I think we should work on that song some more,” Patrick says. “The one we were writing two weeks ago.”

_The kiss swept their clothes away next._

Pete blinks like he’s confused. Sweat beads on his forehead. His face is woozy-colored, faint. “Song?”

One slow step at a time, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal, Patrick advances.

_The feeling of Patrick’s soft, soft skin yielding to his teeth. The frantic atavistic impulse that took over, the desire to suck, to take in, to devour. The color rising, when he pulled back with a smack of his lips: Patrick’s blood rushing to meet him. The sounds from Patrick’s throat. Patrick’s pulse throbbing in his thighs, the skin jumping against Pete’s tongue with each accelerated heartbeat._

“You know the one,” Patrick murmurs. They are close, now. He sings husky and low, “ _Bruises on my thighs like your fingerprints_.”

_Another kiss would erode Pete entirely._

Pete is making a face like he’s having a heart attack, but he’s not moving away. He’s shaking so hard it’s more like vibration. His skin flutters, his pulse trapped beneath it. Patrick—Patrick wants to set it free.

 

_Pete, just on the other side of the doorway, shaking like he’ll shake himself apart. He’s looking back. Turning back through time, his hands streaming with sand from the hourglass: in his mind’s eye, he’s looking back._

It is the gentlest catastrophe. Eyes open, precise as a snake’s strike, Patrick turns his face up to Pete’s and brushes their lips together.

 

_He turns to a pillar of salt. From that moment, he is doomed._

 

With the perfect, mirrored opposite of Patrick’s restraint, Pete falls upon him. With hunger, with yearning, with life-ruining need: their mouths meet. Their bodies tumble. Pete licks his lips apart, licks into Patrick’s mouth, opens him as if to eat him. Patrick, like Little Red Riding Hood, hopes to be swallowed whole. There are not enough teeth in the universe to describe this feeling. This imprint, this imprimatur.

 

_They’re fucking doomed._

_  
_ Love leaves a mark.


End file.
